The snow-capped peaks of Mount Larshen had already disappeared for some time, but the streams still flowed as briskly as in the rainy season; taking their source from the subterranean water reserves amassed by the caves and other rocky cavities that occupied a large part of the immense mountain.
Higher than any other hill or mountain range for miles around, Mount Larshen was visible from any point on the horizon; and any place could be seen from the top of this gigantic rocky peak with sides so wide that several towns and villages had settled there.
The large sloping areas of what was once a fire and rock spewing volcano had become rich in land suitable for the intensive and almost continuous cultivation of fruits and vegetables, whose taste and colors were unmatched on the entire continent.
Humans called it the "blessing of the mountain," Wynblow recalled, as she nibbled on a large yellow squash she had pilfered from a field.
It had been several days since she had arrived in the area, and a few days since she had almost been spotted by a knight patrol after her strange encounter with the old blind woman.
Since then, she had regularly changed her hiding place to avoid the human beings roaming on the various roads and paths that had sheared through the forest like a sword through butter. Then, as hunger was getting to her, she had once again resolved to stealing food here and there, sneaking in the middle of the night in the greatest silence before reaching a crevice where she could hide from everyone. Soon the air had become stifling, and she had also felt the need to stretch her limbs. Being stuck in a tight space was usually comfortable for her, but for some time now, being still had become difficult. She was probably too impatient and anxious about whether or not the young hunter would arrive. She was afraid that, despite his reassuring words, he would not keep his promise.
Crawling with her claws digging into the rock, shards of solidified lava and sand were thrown everywhere, the solidity of the material not matching that of her scales and body. There was a reason why Salamanders were so hard to kill: their bodies were strong, sturdy and rarely feared any threat. Their wings could whip up storms, their claws could gut the walls of armored fortresses, and their fire could melt away any equipment not protected by an enchantment.
Dragons were true war machines on legs, mobile and deadly, hovering over humans and other humanoid creatures like a menacing shadow that could fall at any moment.
However, like all living beings, they had their weaknesses, and these weaknesses could be exploited by their enemies and former prey, significantly reducing their numbers. Magic was the main factor, changing the balance of power between humanoids and wild creatures.
Wild creatures, huh?
At these thoughts, Wynblow sniffed the cool night air, and stretched out her front paws in front of her and clawed at the soft earth where small grasses and flowers grew. She unfolded her wings, and opened them wide, before closing them again.
Then, shaking her back to crack her vertebrae, she sat up and stared at the sky obscured by thick gray clouds. She wondered if she should take a chance and fly away, or go back to the shelter of the bad weather that was coming, and the approaching rain whose wet smell she could smell in the air.
It would soon be raining and freezing. Humans probably wouldn't dare venture outside in such weather, which was fortunate for Wynblow. She could enjoy this part of the mountain all to herself.
However, she wondered how she could know so much about a place she didn't remember visiting. Even if she had been there, she probably wouldn't have known all this information about the food crops planted by humans, or the location of the different paths and roads, and whether they were used frequently or not.
It was really strange how at times memories that didn't seem to belong to her resurfaced in her mind. Was she really regaining previously lost memories, just because she had come out of her isolation?
As for her memory loss itself, was it related to those two curses the old woman had mentioned about her? She found it hard to believe, given that she had absolutely no visible side effects in her daily life. Wasn't that what a curse was for? To hurt them, irreparably?
If someone had cursed her, not once, but twice, it must have meant that someone had a grudge against her to the point of sacrificing several people. If so, what could she have done to be hated so much?
She didn't know, but she was sure the answer lay in the memories she hadn't yet been able to recover.
Walking down the gentle slope where she stood, she came to a stream and drank greedily to cool down her throat. She lifted her head, and saw her distorted reflection staring at the turbid surface of the moving water with its emerald eyes. The swirling liquid had not dissipated the intense glow of the two irises standing out in the gray. For a moment, she felt as if the blurred figure had changed shape and thinned out, losing the spines and horns that usually cut its shadow. However, it had been only brief, the two piercing eyes still glowing in the darkness of the night.
With some anxiety, Wynblow raised her massive, thorny head to observe her surroundings. The wind blew slowly through the leaves of the trees, making a sound like waves continually crashing against the shore. A breeze blew in her direction, and a whisper entered her ear.
"You may forget a lot of things, but remember..."
Restless, Wynblows turned her head in all directions, trying to find the source of these strange words. But neither her eyes nor her ears, or even her muzzle, showed her any presence.
Frustrated, she sat down again, her heavy body crushing small bushes and shrubs that could only crack and break in protest.
Had she imagined this? Or had those words never been spoken aloud, and had been a mere echo in her mind?
And what exactly did she have to remember?
What was so important, that even with lost memories, these words had just resurfaced?